Memory
by KCS
Summary: Strange, what the mind can conjure up to distract and comfort when the darkness cannot get much darker. Set just post-retirement, Holmes's decision to take up a small country case is not the wisest. 221B-drabble arc, similar to Missing and Mistake.
1. Chapter 1

**In an effort to break through a three-week stint of writer's block (and still working on that, unfortunately), I began this 221B-drabble series for the Watsons_Woes LiveJournal community. My other fics are still uncooperative, but I am indeed trying. Until then:**

* * *

"What d'you mean, you don't _know_ if you have a concussion?" Worry honed the tone into a razor's edge, cleaving the frozen darkness into thawed darkness. "You're a doctor, for heaven's sake –"

The small moan offered the response he was hoping to evade, and he lowered his voice. "My apologies, Watson…look, do not move and I shall try to navigate around these crates. Confound it, what is the fellow doing with seven types of turnips, preparing for a famine?"

"Sure I don' know…"

"Devil take the man!" the detective fumed as his shin made intimate contact with a splintered crate-edge. "I must indeed be approaching senility, Doctor, to be taken in by such overt fabrications." He felt but did not mention the smart of damaged pride regarding his inability to defend himself from a much younger man's physical prowess.

"You'll…never become senile," came a weak reassurance out of the inky void. "Absent-minded, possibly…crotchety…demanding…"

"Yes, I grasp the idea, Watson," he replied dryly, though smiling into the darkness in a feeble gesture to convince himself that all would come right, as it always had before…

…despite the fact no one knew they were trapped, that their villain was not returning, and that the cellar door was not only barred outside but the trapdoor hidden under a rug in a disused bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

His boot, for his feet were still slightly numb from their confinement, collided with a bushel-basket of something – potatoes, probably, by the dull thumps that cascaded around his feet when it overturned – and he heard a surprised grunt of inquiry. One of the missiles probably had rolled all the way to where he sensed Watson was.

"Having…trouble, are you?" he heard out of the darkness, and could tell that his friend was grinning. Good, that meant the damage could not be too severe…unless Watson was purposely misleading him, knowing as he did exactly what his senses would detect and how to thwart them.

With a shiver from the dank chill, he shuffled cautiously through the scattered carpeting of tubers and hoped not to step on one and be sent sprawling headlong into the nearest wall. "At least we shall not die of starvation in the next ten years," he remarked lightly to thaw the invisible tension, "though I have never had an overwhelming desire to become a vegetarian."

"Hmm…"

He assumed this was an agreement, and continued, more to keep Watson talking than out of any real desire for reminiscences.

"Mrs. Hudson never would have stood for it besides, would she?"

A feeble chuckle was his only answer, and he picked his way cautiously around another basket his toe had bumped.


	3. Chapter 3

The evident distance separating them was beginning to concern him; for during those few minutes after their villain had struck him with a convenient chair, almost anything could have happened and his unconscious state deprive him of knowing. The chill and envelopment in darkness only increased that feeling of helpless claustrophobia, and he cursed roundly when yet another crate of vegetables tripped his stumbling feet.

But beyond his yowling, his keen ears caught a shifting of movement followed by a hastily-muffled groan, and he straightened up instantly. "Watson?"

"Mmm?"

This time the quietly calm answer did not deceive him, and his lips clenched though no one could see the motion. "Watson, stay with me," he commanded.

"I _am_." He heard the annoyed mutter and felt a knot of tension in his throat relax. The Doctor's voice was much closer, and his blindly groping hand finally found a solid earthen wall.

"Don' trip over me."

This afterthought came from directly in front of him barely in time to prevent his doing just that. Dropping to one knee, he extended one slow hand in the trepidation that accompanies sudden and total deprivation of sense.

"Ow. That's my ear," a familiar voice complained.

He dropped his hand to what he assumed was a shoulder and then breathed a limp sigh of relief, head bowed.


	4. Chapter 4

He shivered as his mind returned, momentary though the reaction had been. "Half a moment, my dear fellow, and I'll have you free," he murmured, thankful that his own bonds had been ridiculously loose.

There had been no reason to restrain them. Nor had it been necessary to literally _throw_ them down into the cellar – he could tell from the gnawing ache of beginning rheumatism, now an inflamed throbbing, that they had been.

An involuntary moan and sudden stiffening under his working fingers immediately halted his progress on the knots. "Watson?"

"Just…go easy…Holmes," the faint gasp brought a darker frown to his face and a lighter touch to his fingers.

"What did he do?" he demanded in a tone low enough to disguise his rage.

"Nothing more than…to you. You just…landed and rolled…"

"And you landed…on your shoulder?" he asked, helpless in the absence of light for observation.

"Arm," the Doctor breathed, tensing as the rope fell to the dirt floor.

He swore softly and kept a gentle hand on Watson's elbow as his arms carefully straightened.

"Doctor, before I try to find a way out of here, tell me what I'm looking at…in a manner of speaking," he amended ruefully.

"I…don' know exactly."

That admission worried him, as he well knew Watson was capable of accurate diagnoses asleep or blindfolded.


	5. Chapter 5

"No, nothing's broken…least I don' think so..."

He had rarely before been so glad to hear anything, even if at the moment he was unsure of the reliability of Watson's medical opinion. They had more pressing concerns.

One of which was the unmistakable slur that was creeping into his friend's speech, and a soft exclamation when he gently felt for a lump only lent credibility to the obvious diagnosis.

"'M not…going to argue with you." The tired sigh tickled his ear as he sat back on his heels, pronouncing his belief that Watson had also landed on his head. "But you…he hit you…with that chair, Holmes –"

"Rest easy, Watson," he assured, very carefully fumbling to place a hand upon his friend's shivering shoulder. "I am perfectly fit. You know my skull is thicker than that, at any rate."

A faint laugh. "Is that…why Dr. Mortimer wanted it?"

He chuckled at the remembrance. "I have absolutely no idea, Watson. You knew the fellow better than I."

"Hmm...He was…"

"Yes?" he prompted worriedly as the voice wavered off. "Watson, stay awake – what was he?"

"Mortimer?" he heard at last.

"Yes, Doctor. Come now, your candid opinion of the man."

An annoyed sigh. Then, emphatically, "He was _odd_, Holmes."

Startled, he laughed, and the darkness seemed a shade lighter than it had been.


	6. Chapter 6

He chuckled despite the gravity of the situation. "On that I would concur, actually."

Something small thudded near them, followed by skittering of claws on packed earth. Oh, _lovely_. Rats in this dank hole, drawn by the prospect of food (for a suspended moment his unique mind wondered if rats were truly vegetarian).

Watson shifted under his hand. He felt a sudden stiffening of muscle and then cringed at an obviously bitten-off moan. He frowned; the fact that the man was hiding how much pain he was in did not bode well for the veracity of his hazy insistence that he was "perfectly fine."

If only he could _see_! His entire profession being built upon his powers of observation, his most terrifying nightmares had been those in which he was blinded – the darkness, the helplessness, the reliance upon others, the inability to use his brain.

But he was _not_ blind, merely hampered. He sternly reminded himself of the fact, shaking his head as if to physically rid it of the visions that lurked at the edge of shadow. Just the same, the darkness pressed upon him, smothering his common sense in claustrophobic semi-panic.

Said panic only increased when he realised it had been over a minute since he had heard a word or movement from the man he was kneeling beside.


	7. Chapter 7

Odd, how his frantic voice seeped eerily into the dirt walls, as if the packed earth were slowly absorbing him.

"Watson. Watson, wake up!" He fumbled angrily against the darkness's choking grip and shook the sleeve his groping hands found. "Please, old fellow…"

He paused in relief as the tweed moved, jerking petulantly from his fingers, and a moment later his eager ears received a bleary "Go 'way."

Laughing, he shook his head before remembering Watson could not perceive the motion. "No, my dear fellow," he replied gently. "You have to stay with me."

"Mmph…" He heard shifting, and immediately reached out to cushion the Doctor's head as he leaned against the wall. "What?"

"That's the way," he answered encouragingly. "You need to remain awake, Watson."

"Oh…right," came the rueful mutter. "What…were we talking abou'?"

"Dr. Mortimer," he prompted, wondering what hour it was on this dreadful October evening. "I am going to explore for a while, Watson. Tell me about the man – you said once that he took you to some excavation out on the moors?"

He was reluctant to leave his position, but needed to investigate the cellar and see if perhaps there was an old quilt or rug; the deep shivering he could feel from the injured man spoke of more than just chill from a plummeting barometer.


	8. Chapter 8

He was glad when he tripped over a bushel of what were unmistakably onions, because that permitted some of his mounting frustration to channel into booting the empty basket across the cellar. Something scurried over his foot, and he hoped only that the vermin would not go crawling all over his helpless friend.

Yards away, the rambling explanation of different skull types and their significances to Neolithic history trailed off in a hoarse cough and then ceased altogether.

"Watson?"

"W-what?"

He swore silently, for even in the one word he could tell Watson was shaking. "What about Sir Henry?" he pressed, stumbling as a small hole in the earth yawned around his boot.

"What about…him? Doesn't matter…"

"_Anything_ about him," he answered, for the Doctor's focus was obviously waning. "He spent time in Canada, didn't he?" He wracked his brain for any minute piece of trivia that could trigger conversation, while all the while keeping his arms outstretched to discover how large their prison was.

"I think so…" he heard a small sigh in the darkness, but smiled fondly when the dogged conversation continued. "Never been to Canada myself…"

"Nor have I."

"He s-said it was cold." The slightly slurred response and its subject matter spurred him into a quicker grope through the gloom.

How he needed to find a blanket!


	9. Chapter 9

He prodded the aimless conversation from Canada to America to the recent San Francisco earthquake, and still had discovered nothing about their prison save that it was about fifteen feet by thirty and full of vegetables, fruits, and creatures of varying degrees of revulsion. He had found the stairs he knew existed, but the trapdoor at the top had apparently been returned to the state they had first seen – bolted outside and hidden from view in a disused portion of the house.

Not wishing to return to Watson with only bad and worse news, he began methodically transversing the cellar in search of anything they might use; his pockets were woefully void of anything but his pipe – no matches for it – and magnifying lens.

Deafening silence suddenly rang an alarm in his mind. "Watson. Watson!" he called worriedly.

The answering whisper was so faint he held his breath to hear. "Yes?"

"There are some sacks here; flour or meal…'tis a rude pillow but better than none, you think?"

"Floor 's fine…'m used to it, y'know…"

Grunting, he heaved a sack over his shoulder. "It has been twenty-five years since you were sleeping in a tent, Doctor." Now, to navigate this obstacle course without dropping the sack from his shoulder…

"Has it?" The absent inquiry sent a chill crawling down his back.


	10. Chapter 10

Navigating the cellar was easier this time, for his instincts were adjusting to his blindness and his sense of direction remembered the worst of the obstacles. His increasing worry – while memory loss, at least temporary, was not uncommon with a concussion of any severity, it was still cause for concern – lent grace to his footing, and within ten seconds he had dropped the bag with a thump.

Evidently a cloud of flour rose when he did, for Watson coughed in annoyance and fine powder floated to stick to his clammy hands.

He murmured an apology and plumped the bag onto its side, driving his elbow into it a few times to make an indentation of sorts. "There we are," he said briskly, feeling tentatively in the dark until his fingers again brushed tweed. "You'll feel a bit better lying down, Watson, now won't you?"

A murmured acquiescence gave him the permission to ease his friend back from the wall and down to a reclining position, and he was glad to hear a lucid enough word of thanks when the feat was accomplished.

But he was blind, not deaf, and had heard the intake of painful gasps, felt the clenching of tense, icy fingers on the edge of his jacket as the Doctor had moved, and perceived the shallowness of his breathing.


	11. Chapter 11

"Doctor, I need you to focus on my voice; can you do that for me?" he asked evenly, despite the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach over how the man was shivering.

"'M _hurt_…not _stupid_." He heard the growl and grinned despite himself.

Patting Watson's arm, he lurched again to his feet and went for another sack; he would waste no more time in searching for a better cover. "Yes, Watson," he chuckled, grunting as he tore the sack-end open.

Flour cascaded over his shoes, but he had more important things to care for and only hurried back to his friend's side. Shaking the burlap to dislodge the worst of the dust, he then dropped to one knee.

"I've found something to work as a blanket for now, old fellow," he said, trying to sound warmer than he felt. "This will help, but I need you to tell me what else I should do. Can you tell me if you're hurt anywhere else?"

Apparently the injured man's mind was clearer than he had assumed, for a moment later it evidently registered with the Doctor that it was his own overcoat being layered under the rough burlap. He only smiled and shushed the vehement protest, fondly wishing he could see the scowl he knew was aimed at him from below.


	12. Chapter 12

"No, I…I think…jus' shaken up a bit," was all he succeeded in pulling from the Doctor, and he could not disprove the diagnosis. Still, at their ages, even a small fall was not an easy thing to rebound from. He had always dreaded growing old, losing his strength – physically, mentally. But he dreaded more watching his friend traverse the same paths two years ahead of him.

Though now, he was beginning to struggle against the feeling that the path would end prematurely, if they did not find a way out of their predicament.

There would be time enough for that in a few minutes, however; now he closed his eyes – a futile gesture, but a familiar habit – to think quietly for a moment, and banish a ghost or two.

When he brought his hand away from pinching his forehead, he inadvertently brushed against Watson's, and a moment later found his fingers clenched in a surprisingly tight, icy grip.

"Holmes," he heard out of the darkness, and wrapped his other hand around the Doctor's freezing one as well.

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

"Talk to me…'M falling…asleep again…"

His hands twitched, but he doubted Watson noticed. "All right," he replied softly. "What would you like me to talk about?"

A small _mmrph_ of indifference, and then as an afterthought, "…anything but…those horrid bees."


	13. Chapter 13

That earned a laugh despite the chill, and he nudged his cold hands – and Watson's escaped one – under the overcoat.

"Very well," he began, "shall I relate one of my early cases to you?"

A decidedly unfavorable grunt. "Not if you…expec' me to try to solve it."

"No, I believe you should be exempted from any severe brain-work just at present."

"Jolly decen' of you, Holm- …"

His lips tightened as the intended sarcasm trailed into a low moan; for a moment his hand went numb under clenching desperation. "It's all right, Watson," he said softly. "Steady on now…that's it…"

The circulation seeped back into his fingers, and on impulse he slid two backward over the pulse point.

He was no doctor, but he knew when it was too low.

"Watson –"

He had not been as subtle as he thought, for a sigh interrupted him. "I know…" came the whisper. "Just – just shock, Holmes…" A shiver, transferred, traveled up his arms. "Not…s-so young, anymore, y'know."

"Bosh," he snorted, glad the darkness hid his burning eyes. "If you keep blathering utter nonsense, then I shall simply expound upon the…the analysis of poisonous woodland plants _a la _my last monograph."

"I thought…you were s'pposed…to be keeping me _awake_?" came the wicked retort, though the words were fainter than they had previously been.


	14. Chapter 14

Only one person had ever made him feel as if no situation were entirely hopeless. (That same man was also, ironically, the only one who had ever been fool and friend enough to follow him _into_ those situations.)

"We cannot _all_ be swashbuckling purveyors of fiction, my dear fellow," said he, smiling fondly because Watson would be able to tell.

"'S a good thing, too," he heard. "A chap mus' have…something that he does better…than Sherlock Holmes."

He snorted, and inhaled a nostril full of drifting flour. Two sneezes later, he ground out a firm "That is not the only talent you possess, Watson, that I have never mastered."

He expected a sarcastic "Oh really?" or a sigh of denial, but when he heard neither – nothing at all – he tugged firmly on the cold hand he still gripped with his own. "Watson? Watson, do not go to sleep," he commanded sharply when he received no response save a weak finger-tightening.

"I – I'm not," came the murmur, and he felt his brows confront each other in the middle of his forehead. Age aside, he did not think the Doctor should still be shaking so nor breathing as shallowly as he was, not if no bones were broken nor external injuries in evidence.

_External_ injuries.

Watson jerked when he swore under his breath.


	15. Chapter 15

"What are you hiding from me?" he demanded in a tone tighter than a sharply-tuned E string.

"Nothing."

The answer was calm – far _too_ calm. His friend's every word usually rang inventively with emotive nuances, part of his incontestable allure as a storyteller – the absence of any and all feeling indicated something amiss to his perception more clearly than if he had been able to see for himself. He realised this fact, that he was _not_ completely blind if he could still cogitate such observations, with only minimal pleasure.

"My dear Doctor, you should know by now that you are incapable of lying to me," he scolded, striving for levity in a situation fast spiraling out of his tenuous control.

Silence, broken by his determined inhalations and the injured man's shallow breaths, greeted him.

"Watson…" he grated through his teeth.

"Holmes, I –"

He tightened his grip to match his friend's sudden clench and wondered how long they had been trapped. "What is it?" he finally asked gently.

He heard an exhausted sigh. "I…I should be able…t-to feel my arm by now," the Doctor finally admitted. "'S not broken, I can move it…but something's…not right."

Perhaps their confinement had been longer than he thought, for his mouth was of the consistency of sandpaper. "And?"

A weak cough. "I'm…having difficulty…catching my breath…"


	16. Chapter 16

"Calm down," was, surprisingly, the next statement from below.

He did not realize he had gone perfectly still, forgetting to breathe at the horrible thought that wormed into his mind. Now he gasped and time continued crawling. "Watson?"

"Isn' as bad as…I mean, there isn'…ohh, my head…I c-can't think, Holmes…" The voice trailed off into a faint moan, and he patted what he assumed was Watson's shoulder.

"Don't try, my dear fellow. It's all right," he answered softly.

"No," came the stubborn growl. "There is…no…_paralysis_," he enunciated finally, his dazed mind coming up with the word at last.

Holmes exhaled painfully. "You are certain?"

"Y-yes." The response was weak but definitive. "Can move…my legs and arms fine. Just…some numbness. Holmes…if you get us out 'f here…you shouldn't…"

He gently squeezed the Doctor's good shoulder, shushing any further explanations. "I won't be able to move you, nor should you try to move yourself, is that it?" he finished.

"Right. Just…a precaution…" The voice trailed off into a whisper and then a small noise of pain in the back of the throat, as if the effort of posing the diagnosis had drained what strength remained.

Holmes quietly pulled the overcoat up to brush the Doctor's chin. "That's enough, old chap. Rest now."

"Better…tell me a s-story," he heard murmured hazily into the blackness.


	17. Chapter 17

Yes, he needed to keep the injured man awake in addition to warm – but the air around them was ever so slightly staler than it had been. He needed to get them out of the cellar, and he would – even if it meant digging his way through ten feet of cold, packed sod with only a splintered bushel-basket and his fingernails.

"I will," he promised, tucking the coat and rough burlap securely around the Doctor. "But you must respond to me, so that I know you are still awake. I shall be doing a bit of exploring."

He heard a whispered agreement, and gave Watson's hand one last reassuring squeeze.

"Very well then." Scrambling to his feet, he began moving around the Doctor to finish his investigation of what he could not see. "What is something you've always wanted to know about me?" he finally inquired after drawing a beautiful blank on a suitable tale to keep the man awake.

"Hmmm…"

He could almost hear the gears whirring eagerly to seize that unusual offer, and he smiled, unintentionally kicking a potato from underfoot. More potatoes…an empty basket…ow, the opposite wall of packed earth.

"Tell me…tell me about your childhood?" was the request a moment after, followed by a rasping cough that set his feet shuffling faster.

"Erm…all right," he muttered begrudgingly.


	18. Chapter 18

He pictured his fingertips as eyes that could see in darkness, sensors to appraise him of his surroundings.

"Well…" he thought for a moment, and felt along the earthen wall. "I did not have a very interesting childhood, I'm afraid, Watson."

"No?" came the interested, if breathless, response from yards away. "Would've thought…living with two geniuses…"

He chuckled. Unbroken earth…sealed boxes; he could come back if he did not locate anything useful…more potatoes to stumble over…baskets of something. He crouched and cautiously reached for their contents, hoping to not grasp a large insect or rotten vegetables.

"Oh! Watson, are you hungry? There are apples here…I think," he added as an afterthought.

He heard a puzzled grumble at the change of subject. "No, thank you."

"Just as you like." As he tucked two into his pockets, the weight of the fruit inspired him. He grinned. "Doctor, have I told you about the time I dared my brother to climb a tree in our orchard, and he got stuck so solidly we had to cut a few limbs off to get him out?"

A weak laugh floated out of the darkness. "Poor Mycroft…"

He snorted. "Poor Mycroft, my eye. He was always Father's favorite, and _deserved_ anything he got."

This time, an outright snicker was his response. "Spok'n like a true younger brother."


	19. Chapter 19

"Ha. Calling the kettle black, are we?"

A miffed snort. "I couldn' possibly…have been such a…"

"Hellion?" Grinning, he interjected, and heard a weak chuckle.

"Pr'cisely…as you were, Holmes."

"That I somehow doubt, my friend," he responded good-naturedly. Either he was farther away than he had thought, or the Doctor's voice was growing weaker. _Keep him talking. _ "Come now, turn about is fair play. What sort of younger brother were you?"

He had spoken tentatively, not knowing how painful those memories might be, but childhood had been so many years ago that only fond remembrance held any significance now.

He heard a pensive _Hmmn_ just before he plowed straight into a series of wooden shelves.

"You all righ'?" came the worried query when he howled, clutching at his eye and cursing the villain who had trapped them in this hell-hole.

He bit down on a sarcastic "Does it sound like it?" and only inhaled slowly through his nose.

"Yeees…" He drew out the syllables slowly, trying to ascertain if his face were already swelling. "I have discovered some shelves, Watson. Do continue, my dear fellow."

The idea that there might be a spade – or even a saw! – on said shelves spurred him to forget his throbbing eye (he could not see anyway), and he began to fumble methodically over the boards.


	20. Chapter 20

Though at first hesitant, Watson had apparently warmed to his topic; and actually Holmes was becoming quite interested in hearing about a sibling relationship that could be termed _normal_ (his never could have been, nor would he have wanted it to be).

"So that is where you learned to love stories, eh?" he inquired, moving a string of braided onions aside to check behind them.

"Mmhm…" He heard a muffled moan, and redoubled his efforts, his lips tightening into a determined slit. "Was…probably six years old then," the Doctor added after a moment. "Laid up…for a fortnigh' with the measles. Andrew…spent hours just reading to me. Heaven knows I…was a horrid p-patient, even then…"

He yelped quietly as an oversized splinter stabbed his palm, and heard the rambling voice behind him pause mid-anecdote.

"Ho'mes?"

"Nothing, nothing," he muttered hastily. "Do go on, my dear fellow." Nothing of use here, perhaps the shelf below? His fingers closed around something that disintegrated with a squish – a rotten apple, if the smell was anything to deduce by.

_Lovely._

Scrubbing his hand against his trousers, he persevered despite whatever-that-was which suddenly crawled many-legged over his hand – but it was only when he knocked a tin can clattering onto the floor and heard no response, that he realised Watson had _not_ continued his story minutes before.


	21. Chapter 21

When his first call received no answer, he dropped the box he was plundering and darted back across the cellar as quickly as he dared, kicking loose produce in all directions.

"Watson!" he demanded, dropping to one knee to feel blindly. "Watson, wake up this instant!"

He had found the injured man's shoulder by this time and proceeded to shake it insistently, but with no response. He wasted several seconds in timing the low pulse, and when more demands produced no result he gritted his teeth, breathed an apology, and then forcibly gripped the Doctor's injured shoulder, shaking him again.

"I'm sorry…I'm so sorry, Watson," he whispered as, to his relief, he heard movement away from him and a pained gasp of confusion. "It's all right, old fellow…just lie still," he added as he felt his friend tense suddenly with a choked cry.

"Wh-what?" The bewilderment was evident in the faint quaver, but it was a _response_. "H-Holmes, what –"

"Shh…it's all right, my dear fellow," he soothed gently, breathing a sigh of relief. "You dozed off, Watson," he continued soberly.

"I…I did?"

"Yes." Good heavens, how cold the man's hands were!

"Oh…sorry…"

He resisted the urge to swat Watson fondly upside the head. Besides, his current concern was the flour that must have got in his eyes; they were burning.


	22. Chapter 22

He was hauling another sack of flour when he heard the confused inquiry. "Why…'s it so c-cold?"

He bit his lips for a moment and carefully lifted the Doctor's legs atop the sack; his ancient medical classes at St. Bart's were sifting to the top of his brain-attic files, and he remembered a little. There was not much more he could do, besides to extricate them from their prison.

"It is unfortunately the dead of night in October, old chap," he replied quietly. "We always did have the poorest luck on these ventures of ours, did we not?"

A small snort of agreement that ruffled his hair as he bent over the injured man, and then a weak chuckle. "'Member that time…we were stuck in tha' broom closet…for four hours, that Paris jewelry theft c-case?"

"Ugh." That had been a sticky, boiling August evening, and they had been lucky the closet had a small window they could knock the glass out of for air.

Speaking of which, theirs was edging inexorably towards staleness.

"That was horrible," he continued, reluctantly scrambling to his feet once more. "But no more than that fishing scow we were caught investigating…extremely early case, that – do you remember?"

"Should say so," Watson declared in a marginally stronger tone. "For weeks…th' house s-smelt like high noon in Billingsgate…"


	23. Chapter 23

He wrinkled his nose at the remembrance, and then regretted it as his abused face – he was certain that he had a black eye – protested.

"Yes, that was a nasty experience for all involved," he agreed, returning to the shelves. "What do you suppose, Doctor, was the worst situation I have gotten you into over the years? Be frank, now."

"'Sides this one?"

He winced, but then heard a soft peal of laughter that informed him the gallows humour had been entirely intentional. "Yes, besides this one," he retorted genially.

Hmm…empty baskets, box of nails (he could dig his way out with a nail over time, but not in this instance before the air was depleted)…more scurrying insects with enough legs to tickle his hands…and nothing else.

Only the bottom shelf left, unfortunately, and then he would be completely out of luck unless he had missed something amid the fruits and vegetables stacked around.

"Well…worst as in wha'…dangerous? Or mos' embarrassing? Or…" He smiled at the rambling, slightly impertinent words, his groping hands feeling for the items on this last shelf. "…mos' uncomfortable?" the Doctor continued thoughtfully. "Because stuck behin' your bed prob'ly was the mos' unc-comfortable…"

He sighed. "I never shall be able to live that down, shall I?"

"N-no, and serves you right, too," the Doctor shot back belligerently.


	24. Chapter 24

That he could not deny. "Start with the most embarrassing, shall we?"

"Mm…well, I – I s'ppose it was –"

"**Watson**!" he interrupted with a shout of delight, for on the bottom left of the shelf he had discovered not only what felt like a dulled saw-blade and other disused tools, but some items even more important just at that moment – a lantern, a packet containing three dry matches, and a heavy, ancient quilt (which thankfully was free of _rodentia_). "Oh, thank heaven! Watson, I've got a light, and a blanket!" he cried, dragging the items out in a bundle.

"Wh-what? A light?" The whisper was filled with even more hope than what rushed through his veins in a warming flood, and he glowed with happiness hurrying back toward the injured man.

"A light, and a quilt; perhaps you can get warm now, my dear fellow," he replied shakily, and laid the items beside his shivering friend. "This must have been a refuge during summer thunderstorms, and these emergency supplies. Now then."

He unwrapped the items and then hastened to flop the warm quilt over the Doctor, who sighed in contentment and murmured a heartfelt thank-you. "Of course, dear chap. Now, for this lantern…blast, the match won't light. Trying again…ahh!"

Never in their life had either of them seen anything so beautiful.


	25. Chapter 25

Though glad to have the comforting illumination, Holmes hastily moved the flame back as Watson gasped and turned his head away from the sudden flickering, eyes clenched tightly.

"I am sorry, old fellow," he murmured, turning the lamp down to a glow. "I forgot…can you bear it for a few minutes, and let me get a look at you?"

A small nod, and he moved the lamp closer to the Doctor's shoulder.

"At any rate," he continued as at his gentle prodding Watson turned back toward him, "we cannot keep it lit, for it will eat up the oxygen. But for a little while, at least…there now, open your eyes, dear fellow…that's it."

Words would never be sufficiently expressive to indicate his relief at being able to see, but he almost would rather not have perceived for himself how much pain Watson was in. Even uncertainty seemed far less agonizing than watching the Doctor's sheet-white face clench.

Pupil response was very slow, and when after only a few seconds the Doctor's eyes were streaming from the glare Holmes moved the lamp a yard away.

"There," he murmured as Watson's eyes fluttered closed once more. "Now…should I touch you, do you think, or just not move you at all?"

"I – I don't know," Watson murmured helplessly, his brow furrowing in obvious bewilderment.


	26. Chapter 26

He bit his lip in vexation but made certain to hide his mounting concern by inspecting a fast-swelling bruise.

Watson hissed through clenched teeth despite his gentleness, and he removed his arm from behind the Doctor's head, settling him back with all possible care.

"Holmes…" Watson breathed shallowly. "You'd better…jus' worry about…getting us out 'f here."

"Watson, I –"

Unfocused eyes sharpened insistently. "Even if…you c-could diagnose accurately…wouldn't help any." He reached clumsily to clench an unsteady hand upon Holmes's flour-dusted sleeve.

Holmes could not argue with that logic, but that did not require him to easily accept it. "But – "

"Holmes…'s all right." A faint smile. "Look, I – I can move, see? 'S just…not qu-quite right somehow…"

Lips pursed, he finally nodded and moved Watson's limp hand back under the quilt, tucking it securely. The Doctor's eyes slid closed, and his breathing deepened into a shuddering sigh.

"Stay awake," he cautioned again, and received a ready nod. "Good. I found a saw-blade, Doctor, and perhaps I can cut through those planks that bar the outside of that trapdoor; we shall see, at any rate."

"Good luck," Watson whispered.

"Just hold on, old fellow," he replied softly.

His last sight before extinguishing the lantern was that endearing, trusting smile which had fascinated him from the moment they met, twenty-five years before.


	27. Chapter 27

The momentary relief from the smothering blackness made its return even more dense, but he resisted the urge to curl up beside Watson and rest, loudly though his aching joints demanded. Taking up the saw – he did not hold much hope for success, as it was obviously dulled, but by heaven he would try until the air ran out – he moved to the cellar steps.

"Talk to me, Watson," he called, and heard a protesting grunt. "Now, none of that, old fellow; you know as well as I what is necessary. Now then…" His upraised hand struck wood, and he paused to locate the gap between floor and door. "Tell me, Doctor, what exactly possessed you to stick with me in those old days, hm?" he inquired, with genuine curiosity. "I could hardly have been the most considerate of companions to a recovering veteran."

A faint laugh drifted his direction. "H-hardly."

He began to saw, up and down, and immediately repressed a groan at how dull the blade was. "Why then, Watson?"

"Well…" he paused in his scraping as the murmur trailed into darkness, but resumed when the Doctor continued. "…I s'ppose, to start…because you f-fascinated me."

"Yes, I gathered that from your interesting compilation of my limits," he chuckled, grunting as the thick oak remained nearly impenetrable to the blade.


	28. Chapter 28

"Besides that, Watson."

"D'you want…the s-short version…or the long one?"

He smiled at the attempted humour, weak though it was, and replied with a playful "Both. Short version first."

"Mmph…" He continued sawing, his movements hastened by the sharp intake of breath from across the cellar, followed by the obviously controlled, shuddering exhalation. "Just…" the Doctor continued when able, "…I _liked_ you."

He blinked and paused, taken aback by the simplicity of the answer. Then he laughed. "I can safely state that I have never heard anyone say such a thing to me before, Doctor," he shot merrily over his shoulder, wrenching the blade up and down, up and down, up and down…

"Yes, well…nobody's…ever got me…trapped in a root cellar b'fore either," was the answer, obviously delivered around a smirk.

"A low blow, Watson."

"Isn' it though?"

Up and down he sawed until his hands chafed…but not as if it were really getting through the wood. Still, it was their last chance; the air was growing danker by the minute.

He forced a smile on his face because it would show in his tone. "What about the long version, Watson?"

Silence answered him, and he paused on the instant. "Watson?"

A hoarse fit of coughing, and then a pained sigh. "Jus' a second…" was murmured faintly. "Let me…c-catch my breath."


	29. Chapter 29

"Are you all right, old man?"

"Y-" A broken gasp that lent new strength to his feverishly-working hands, and then a strained affirmative which was undoubtedly an outright falsehood.

Amid increasing despair, he could feel that the dulled blade had only moved a half-inch through the wood. At one inch per hour, it would take another hour-and-a-half to bisect this cross-plank, and three more for the other side.

They did not have that long.

"'S odd…" Watson was rambling half-coherently behind him now. "Didn't…have this much trouble…breathing, b'fore…"

He pounded desperately on the mockingly solid trapdoor, and felt again for any weak spot. Twice, three times he unsuccessfully hurled his slight weight upward, in hopes of snapping the cross-plank, and only bruised his shoulder for his trouble.

Finally, spent and breathless (at least he was no longer cold), he rested his aching head upon the top step beneath the unyielding door, and wondered what to do.

Strange, what the mind would conjure up in a situation without hope; despite the thin air his brain was whirling in a thousand different directions. The chiefest of these was what a horribly sad picture they would make for the person who next opened this trapdoor – his poor friend lying quietly across the cellar, and he sprawled on the steps clutching a dulled saw blade.


	30. Chapter 30

The physical strain was wreaking havoc on his rheumatic joints, and the mental on his state of mind; it took Watson's third calling of his name for him to realise the fact.

"What is it, my dear fellow?" he asked, lifting his head and attempting to sound himself – a more Herculean task than breaking through the two inches of wood overhead.

"Are you…all righ'?" was the weak inquiry, and he could have kicked himself; the cessation of noise had alerted the injured man.

"Yes, yes – quite all right, Watson," he replied quickly, stumbling back into his former position and returning to the dogged sawing; it gave his hands something to do besides clench in his hair. "What were we talking about?"

He could hear audible struggling for breath now, and felt like being sick on the steps at the faintness of the whisper that reached him moments later. "N-never mind…don' remember, anyway…"

He did not even bother to dash his sleeve over his eyes, for in the darkness clarity of vision mattered naught.

_Nothing_ did, now.

"You…" A shallow intake of breath, followed by a cough. "…you…aren't going…to get through, are you?" Watson finally asked softly.

He bit his lip nearly through before answering. "Of course I am, Watson. Just hold on a bit longer, and –"

The saw-blade finally broke.


	31. Chapter 31

Now he had a hazy idea of what his injured friend felt, because he had just gone somewhat numb, in a this-cannot-possibly-have-happened-and-I-will-wake-up-any-moment-and-have-a-good-laugh-with-Watson-over-it kind of way.

Unfortunately, his clinically precise mind informed him calmly that this was reality, and of his own making too.

The pieces of saw-blade fell with a thump, and his head followed suit into his shaking hands.

He knew admitting the affair was his fault (he was the one who insisted upon investigating despite Watson's good-natured remonstrations about his retirement) and apologising for it would only force the Doctor to expend more energy than he had to spare in bluntly telling him to stop talking nonsense.

But that did not change the fact that it _was_ his fault.

And that meant while he still drew breath, liberation was his responsibility. He painfully descended the steps, jaw set.

A shuddering cough jolted his mind from its self-deprecation, as did the subsequent quiet inquiry. "It – it broke, didn' it?"

He sighed, and stopped when his outstretched hand felt shelves. "It did, my dear fellow. Checking…yes, there are a few other tools here. A rake, that's no help…extra broom handle, I think…a – a hammer, Watson!"

"S-so?"

If in younger days he could un-bend a poker, then possibly, just possibly, in his old age he could pry out a few floor boards?


	32. Chapter 32

He was halfway up the steps before he realised that, if he failed, he likely would not have the time or strength to try differently.

His pause had been perceived, for out of the darkness came a confused "What's…wrong, Holmes?"

Besides that he was torn between wanting to say goodbye properly, and hoping his friend would simply fall asleep, peacefully unaware of his failure and the oxygen depletion?

He rubbed a sleeve over his face – perspiration or tears, he no longer cared which was which – and cleared his throat preparatory to his worst deception yet. "Nothing, my dear chap, nothing at all. I shall have us out of here in a few minutes," he called over his shoulder as he ascended to their deadly barrier.

A small sigh floated up to him. A whispered "Knew…you would," followed, and sent his hands to clenching at the undeserved confidence and the painful irony.

He rammed the split end of the hammer into the only crack large enough to admit its passage, and heaved backward with all his remaining power.

Wood-shrill creaking, then splintering, and the unearthly groan of nails being shifted for the first time in half a century. He allowed himself one breath of hope, adrenaline fueling his arms with a last burst of strength.

And then the cheap hammer suddenly bent.


	33. Chapter 33

Desperate now, he shifted his grip up the handle and again rammed into the crack, throwing all his weight into leverage and nearly losing his balance on the narrow stairs. The wood shrieked in ridicule, and finally he collapsed to see that he had not even widened the slit enough for his finger to pass. Splinters dotted his trousers, but none larger than a match-stick.

How he cursed his forefathers for building houses meant to last centuries!

Steadily burning knots indicated the strain upon his joints, and though blind he knew his head was reeling from his exertions. It was taking far too long for him to catch his breath.

Judging from the shallow inhalations he could barely hear, Watson was having the same difficulty.

He staggered back to his former position and once more applied what leverage he could to the all-but-useless hammer, but the floor-boards remained firm, and the trapdoor weighted.

For a moment he deliberated using the last match and lamp-oil to fire the door; but the likelihood lay in the flames smothering them, or the rug over the trapdoor smothering any draught that would spread the blaze enough to disintegrate the wood.

Besides, he knew now from the throbbing in his ears that once he descended the steps he would not have the strength to stagger back.


	34. Chapter 34

It was over, and he knew it.

Blinking back liquid frustration, he hurled the hammer against the earthen wall and laid his aching head down on the cool wood of the step. Like the remnants of a star's explosion drifting in the soundless void of space, his mind wandered hopelessly into the knowledge that he was less than six inches from freedom, and yet would never see it.

Even at the Reichenbach Falls, he had not been so miserable, nor so filled with despair.

Nor had he, ironically enough, felt so _alone_ then. Contented to know that he had successfully seen Watson out of danger, he had been able to face The Great Challenge with, as he had said, perfect equanimity. Then he was a white knight, sacrificing his life for humanity (or so Watson's pen had somehow half-convinced even him, though he knew his ignoble self better).

Now, no one would even realise he was gone until his bees provoked a neighbour into visiting.

Chilling, to think that had Watson not published those wonderfully frustrating stories, he would die unnoticed and unremarked by the world. But he _had_ been given immortality, of a sort – something most men never were granted.

And suddenly he wished with all his soul that he had not so heartlessly rejected the scribblings of his biographer.


	35. Chapter 35

The part of him that could be as unselfish as he would ever get (which was not saying much), hoped that Watson had lost the battle for consciousness; he did not wish his last memories of this life to be of seeing his dearest friend suffer for no worse crime than blind loyalty.

But the selfish portion – the larger portion – was glad when a faintly-murmured quaver drifted his direction.

Taking a deep breath of foul air, he exhaled slowly, and in that time controlled his voice. "Yes, my dear fellow?" he replied softly.

"If…you're not…going…to get through…would you c-come back…over here?"

He was not the only one who did not wish to be alone. "Of course, my friend," he answered sadly, and levered himself from the stairs.

The finality of reaching packed earth was enough to turn his stomach with its almost physical despair, but he bit his lips until he tasted blood, and returned to the other side of their prison – their _grave_ now, he corrected himself morbidly.

A weaker cough met him as he knelt on the earthen floor. "N-no luck, eh?"

He was too exhausted, too numb, to keep up the façade…and he did not want his last words to be yet another lie, to crown the collection he had dealt over the decades.

"None," he whispered brokenly.


	36. Chapter 36

"You mus'n'…blame yourself," greeted him kindly from the darkness.

He sighed, and hesitantly felt in the dark until he reached an icy hand to return his trembling clasp. "You never were fooled by me, were you?" he asked with melancholic fondness. "You knew I wasn't getting through."

"I knew," the Doctor whispered, clinging tightly to his hand. "I – I didn' realise…about the air, though…'t-til a few minutes…ago."

"I – I was hoping you would just fall asleep, Doctor," he managed through a fast-melting shell of ice, constructed in fragile fragments around his composure. "Watson, I…" he swallowed, and felt the grip on his hand tighten with a surprising strength, given the circumstances.

"I know, Holmes…I know."

He nodded dumbly, forgetting Watson could not see it, and curled up in a miserably long-legged huddle with his head on the extra flour-sack, his free arm curled beneath it.

A faint cough. His friend's grip tightened painfully until it passed. "It'll be…all righ', Holmes," he heard, and for once he was not the one telling falsehoods.

Both their hands were shaking. "Are you cold, old fellow?"

"I'm…f-freezing, actually…" was the faint confession.

He tried to tuck the quilt in tighter, for all the good it would do now. "I am so very sorry, Watson," he whispered, and did not mean for the lack of blankets.


	37. Chapter 37

Thankfully Watson always could read between his blurred lines.

"When…have I ever…" he tightened his grip, as if by sheer willpower keeping the inevitable at bay, "refused to…f-forgive you?"

"Never." Then, after a painful swallow, "Thank you, my friend." Cold fingers tightened weakly around his, then ghostly silence.

Finally, "You never…c-came back to…th' long version."

He so wished to pierce darkness for one last look, but conjured up a smile. "No, I did not. What, pray, _is_ the long version?"

Watson was smiling, he could tell. "You…" he breathed shallowly, "you…helped me…to forget."

He blinked. "The War, you mean?"

"That…and th' fact…that I w-was crippled…had no job, or p-prospects…or family…f-frien's, for that matter…" He could feel Watson was shivering worse now, and he clenched his jaw hard enough it ached more than his heart. "You…helped…more than…you'll ever know, Holmes."

He attempted answering, but found that the remainder of his composure had melted completely.

"Twenty-five years…" Watson murmured. "A man can be…s-satisfied…with that, I think. Thank you…Holmes."

A full minute died before his spasming throat resumed the power of speech. When it did, he discovered his friend had finally fallen asleep; breathing but unconscious, hand limp.

He would not wake him now.

"Thank you, my dear Watson," he echoed quietly, reverently, and wished he had possessed the courage to say it before.


	38. Chapter 38

_Pounding. Loud, obnoxious, painful-to-his-head pounding. And here he had always believed that the afterlife was a place of uninterrupted peace! Actually, that was one reason he had been skeptical of even wanting to pass the veil, if he would only spend eternity bored to tears (if there were tears there). _

_But someone was shouting, distracting him from the blankness he had relapsed into. Unfortunately, the shouts were apparently in fragments._

"…don't **care** about your bloody **formalities**, Sergeant!" _Dear me, such language. _"…air down here…the **lamp went out**, you great…if you have to **chop up the entire blessed floor but get some air down here!**"

_Ouch, that last had been far too close to his ear. He did not know many people who could bellow like that…or swear like this…_

"Holmes? Oh, you are so **not** going to do this. Take a deep breath, or by heaven I'll choke you myself!"

He started as cold air suddenly swept through the passages of his lungs, and wondered what the devil _Lestrade_ was doing in Sussex. Coughing and gasping, he was struggling to a sitting position even before he could see against the jagged light overhead.

"Whoa, here now! Steady on, Mr. Holmes!"

Now he _knew_ he was not dead, for a crochety retired police inspector was _not_ his idea of an angelic being.


	39. Chapter 39

He blinked, eyes streaming, and finally the familiar (though not seen in a year), slightly older features of his former colleague swam into focus.

"What are you doing here, Lestrade?" he managed between gasps for blessedly fresh air.

The retired Inspector dead-panned. "You mean the Doctor didn't tell you?"

"Tell me wh– Watson!" Oxygen brought the remembrance of those last horrible minutes. "Is –"

"Calm down, Mr. Holmes!" another voice spoke up from his right. He turned his head to see the familiar face of Stanley Hopkins, who was kneeling beside the Doctor. "He's breathing fine now," the younger man reassured, and he slumped limply against the earthen wall, hand over his eyes. "Though it was a bit tricky for a moment when we first got down here; when the lamp flickered out, I thought..."

"So did I. You're deucedly lucky Watson left us that note, y'know," Lestrade scolded with deserved authority that comes of a twelve-year seniority.

"What are you blathering about?" he muttered. "A note would not have brought you here from London."

"We were coming anyway…oop," Hopkins muttered, grinning. "He was going to surprise you, wasn't he?"

"That is the logical conclusion, since I have absolutely _no idea_ what the devil you are talking about!" he retorted.

"Firs' time…for everything," a new voice interjected weakly into the banter.


	40. Chapter 40

He instantly was scrambling over the impeding flour sack and skidding to a halt beside a startled Hopkins and a semi-conscious Watson.

"Watson! You…are you…" His oxygen-deprived brain was still spinning far too sickeningly to judge what was reality.

The Doctor's eyes remained unfocused, closing against the light overhead; but he saw a faint smile, and the injured man reached out from under the quilt toward him.

"Someone. Tell me. _What in heaven's name is going on_?" he finally enunciated deliberately.

Lestrade eyed him warily, but was the first to speak. "You know what this month is?"

"October. Watson is the one with the concussion, not I."

"It's…three-year annivers'ry…of your…retirement, Holmes," he heard whispered from beside him.

He blinked. "My…what?"

"The Doctor invited us down to surprise you with some sort of party or other," Hopkins interjected, folding up his overcoat to place behind the Doctor's head.

Watson smiled his thanks and then squinted up at the stunned detective. "Then…you ruined ev'rything…" he reproved, "by…running about…on this blasted case."

"He left us a note at your cottage saying what you were investigating, but it took a good bit of old-fashioned legwork to find the house and then this cellar," Lestrade added. "Hopkins here was the one who noticed the drapes in this room are black, but the rug is dark _blue_."


	41. Chapter 41

"Let me see if I have this sequentially," he declared. "Watson invited you down here without my leave for…a _party_?"

"Dead-on, Mr. Holmes," Hopkins interjected helpfully, and Watson stifled a laugh against the quilt.

"You discovered his note, and followed our trail until you located this trapdoor in time to prevent our asphyxiating."

"That's about it," Lestrade agreed.

"And," he fixed the man now leaning against him with a glare, highly ineffective as Watson could barely look up at him, "you _knew_ all along that we might be rescued and yet you said nothing??"

"Exac'ly," Watson retorted stubbornly. "Wasn't about…to raise false hopes."

Indignantly unappreciative of the role reversal, he ranted on general principle for a moment – it was _his_ prerogative to hold his trumps until the last hand!

"'Sides," Watson added with a meaningful shiver, "you'd hardly have…s-said such nice things…about me…if you'd had strong hope of rescue…now would you?"

Only the look of death Lestrade received upon laughing aloud prevented a comment regarding the detective's flaming face.

"My dear Doctor, if you did not _already_ have a concussion…"

"Stop spluttering," Watson sighed fondly, closing his eyes and letting his head droop back against his friend.

He obeyed, and only tightened the arm he held around the Doctor in an effort to drive from his mind what might have been.


	42. Chapter 42

With Watson's muddled insistence and Hopkins's help, he had the Doctor bundled out of his overcoat and back into the quilt before the man had time to be chilled. And he was rather grateful to have the thing; for the cold was aggravating his joints, as was the cramped position in which he had been kneeling, knowing that a flour-sack was not the most comfortable pillow for his friend's aching head.

Lestrade was re-lighting the lantern when Watson's eyesight evidently cleared, for an exclamation sent his gaze jerking downward in concern.

"What is it?"

"What…what happened to your eye?" the Doctor gasped, blinking up at him against the milling shadows overhead. The rhythmic chopping of metal through wood showed that Lestrade's orders to clear the air below were being followed.

"Ah…" He grinned despite the aches. "You remember when I said I had discovered some shelves?"

"Oh, Holmes…"

"You always did enjoy experiencing things the hard way," Lestrade interpolated cheerfully. A snap of striking match for the fifth time, and a tiny flame filled the ghostly grey. "There we are!"

Warm light, so very warm, banished the rest of the dank gloom, and they all united in a relieved sigh. Then Lestrade jumped as a goodly piece of flooring hit the ground a yard away.

"Cummings, for pity's sake?" he bellowed.


	43. Chapter 43

"But Inspector –"

"Don't you 'Inspector' me, lad! I haven't been your superiour in three years! Thank heaven," Lestrade muttered in an afterthought.

"But you told us to –"

"I doubt he meant chopping the flooring to bits _directly over our heads_, Sergeant," Hopkins drawled.

"Ohhh…"

"Small wonder he never made it past Sergeant," Lestrade sighed. "Now, Doctor, tell us what we need to do for you."

He watched as Watson closed his eyes, assessing the situation, and then blinked them against the painful light.

"Watson," he said softly. "You said you were numb."

"I – I was," he answered breathlessly. "But…'s already improved…some." His relief must have shown, for he thought Watson smiled; he could not be certain since he could barely see. "Just…shock, I think…and cold, too…only my shoulder…truly is painful now."

"I don't think carrying him up those narrow steps is the safest idea," Hopkins observed dubiously.

Watson agreed, nodding.

"Then if you're stable, Doctor, perhaps you should rest here while we call for transportation," Lestrade offered.

"You all right with that, old fellow?"

A tired smile, and Watson relaxed against him. "'M comfortable enough, thank you."

"Good. I'll see about keeping Cummings from flattening us with floor-boards, and you call for a cart," Lestrade directed. The younger man promptly disappeared up the steps. "Gentlemen, we'll be right back."


	44. Chapter 44

"Tell me the truth, Watson," he ordered sternly when they were alone. "Are you really improved?"

"I am, and was…being truthful," the Doctor declared, shivering slightly and curling into the warmth of the quilt. "That time," was added puckishly, as was a grin aimed up at him.

He sighed, and rested his back against the wall, shifting his friend's head gently as he could. "I still cannot believe you held that back, Watson."

"I…I didn't think they would find us. We…owe them, Holmes."

"We do," he agreed without hesitation.

"Glad to hear you realise it, after a _quarter-century_," Lestrade's voice amusedly floated down.

Holmes aimed a scowl at random. A shrieking of nails being wrenched from their beds, and suddenly another floor-board was torn away, letting in silvered dawn-light.

He glanced down to see that Watson was dozing off again, and regretted having to wake him. "Stay with me, old chap," he requested with a nudge, and Watson's eyes flickered open.

"Haven't I always?"

"You have," he agreed thickly. "Though heaven alone knows why."

"Would you…like the short version, or the long one?"

Lestrade cautiously descended into the cellar a moment later, hoping the hysterical laughter was not the harbinger of madness. He was back again in seconds, grinning, to meet Hopkins returning from the telephone with an armful of blankets.


	45. Chapter 45

He was unable to assist in extricating Watson from the cellar; several hours in the chill without his coat – or gloves, he'd lost them earlier – had unfortunately stiffened his joints beyond usefulness. While thoroughly unappreciative of the physical reminder of Age, he became more upset over relegation to passive bystanding in the ensuing rescue operations.

He was unaware that he was hovering, muttering directions in a flurried string, until Lestrade, struggling with the impromptu stretcher, gasped out a threat to have him gagged and cuffed to a chair if he didn't leave them alone for half-a-minute.

Hopkins remained too out-of-breath for more than a grunted chuckle, but Watson was not so incapacitated and laughed aloud. He was pleased to see the Doctor coming more alert the closer they drew to the light of new day.

Momentarily distracted by the wailings of the local constable – the sole law-enforcer in that hamlet – regarding the destruction of the flooring, by the time he left the little fellow pouring out his troubles to a sympathetic Sergeant Cummings the other two had finally reached open air and let the injured man down very gently.

"You all right, Doctor?" Lestrade puffed, running a hand through his thinning hair.

Watson nodded, scrunching his eyes up against an iced-rosy sunbeam. "Better…already, being shut of that awf'l place," he breathed.


	46. Chapter 46

Aware that doctors – one in particular – made the worst patients, Lestrade instead turned his attentions to keeping a twitchy Holmes from shredding the wallpaper. Hopkins made tea (with fresh honey, naturally), and after thrice being repelled for his efforts finally succeeded in getting the older man to drink some.

The overflow barely missed Lestrade's trousers from Holmes's slapping the cup back on the table, when the bedroom door opened before a youngish, scholarly fellow named Cateridge, the resident physician at the nearby _Gables_ and a close acquaintance.

"I still think you should call a London man, Holmes," said he without preamble. "I don't think there is permanent damage to the nerves – nothing that a few weeks' complete bed-rest will not heal – but just the same."

Hopkins nudged the closest chair against Holmes's legs, and he collapsed into it with unashamed gratitude.

"Better not tell him you're calling another man, though," Cateridge continued, grinning. "I've never seen a man his age, with a concussion that severe, inform me in quite those terms that he was treating patients before I was medically possible, and he could jolly well diagnose himself, thanks very much. Stubborn old fellow, your doctor, Holmes."

Lestrade sprayed tea back into his cup, then used it to hide his smirking, as an indignant "I _heard_ that!" sounded from the bedroom.


	47. Chapter 47

Cateridge was nobody's fool; a good thing, since the laughing Yarders would not have noticed Holmes's head dropping into his trembling hands until the man had fainted.

The young physician was quicker, and had a dash of brandy into the tea and the tea into Holmes's stomach before the others could move.

"That's better," he observed kindly, kneeling beside his bag in front of the older man. "What in the world did you do to that eye – no, stop rubbing it! From the look of it, you're lucky to still have your vision."

He received only a shaky mumble, and one look immediately sent Hopkins scurrying meekly to turn down the linens in the detective's bedroom.

"Hmm…" he probed, and ignored the one-eyed glare. "I don't believe you've a concussion, but I told your friend I'd check. That fall did nothing for your rheumatism, though, and – look at me like that again, and I'll _sedate_ you, Holmes, I'm warning you – and so I believe rest is definitely in order."

"If you think I am going to –"

"I do, and you _are_," Cateridge retorted, and turned to Lestrade. "See that he gets the rest he needs before he starts hovering 'round Dr. Watson, if you please?"

"I do not _hover_!"

Pillow-muffled laughter drifted through the open door, and the detective blushed.


	48. Chapter 48

Cateridge was recalled to the school shortly thereafter, and left the two Yarders blinking at a very cranky bee-farmer. How Holmes managed to look menacing with a cloth of ice against one eye was beyond them, but neither dared protest when the man stalked to the Doctor's bedroom in a majestic swirl of trailing blanket.

"You may as well remake his bed," Lestrade sighed companionably. "Not like we're going to get him out of there."

Hopkins grinned knowingly and stacked the empty cups. "I've got to locate Cummings and be getting back to the Yard…you going to keep an eye on them?"

"Mmhm. Wire me if they find the man?"

"Of course. He won't get far." The Inspector flipped the lapels of his coat right-side-up, peeking through the half-open doorway.

Watson's head turned his direction, and Holmes paused in his earnest whispering, glancing up but not releasing the Doctor's hand.

"I must be getting along, gentlemen; we'll have to try this again sometime," he said apologetically.

"Thank you, Inspector," Watson murmured tiredly.

He smiled. "It's our pleasure, Doctor. Take care of yourself. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes – no, no, don't get up. Lestrade's going to stay for a while."

"_Huzzah_," Holmes muttered sarcastically, then yelped at Watson's well-aimed smack of rebuke.

He laughed and pulled the door nearly closed on the resultant bickering.


	49. Chapter 49

Holmes barely heard Hopkins's promise to send a London physician along with news of the man who had imprisoned them, nor looked up when the cottage door closed. Finally he sighed, glancing at the pale figure on the bed.

"Keep that ice…on your eye," Watson whispered.

Unable to smile under the knowledge of what his stubborn actions had nearly cost them, he was glad to hide his guilt in the dripping cloth. However, that was not sufficient to mask it from the only man who knew him better than he knew himself.

"It's all right, Holmes," he heard a moment later. "But…you did retire for a reason, you know. If you regret it, then nothing is keeping you from returning to practice – but it must be done _carefully_, my dear fellow. I'm not ready to do without you just yet…and…I daresay you feel the same."

He did. _How_ he did!

"I…am sorry, Watson," he murmured helplessly. What else could be said? "You were right all along, and I…I've no idea what I was thinking."

"I do," Watson replied quietly. "No true performer ever likes to ring down the final curtain."

He nodded wordlessly, hanging his head.

"But knowing you," the Doctor continued, smiling fondly, "I'm probably wasting my time trying to convince you - you'll never truly take a last bow."


	50. Chapter 50

"No, my dear Watson. Only my bees now – there will be no more criminals."

Having learned his lesson the most heart-wrenching way, he added a silent promise. _And if there ever are, in future, I shall not take you down with me._

"Good," Watson whispered, a line of pain deepening between tense eyebrows. "I –"

"You, Doctor mine," he interrupted gently with an upraised finger, "are going to do no more talking." Laying the ice-cloth down, he rose to smooth the blankets. "Rest now, Watson."

Sheer exhaustion won over stubbornness before he finished laying out the coverlet. "That's the way," he murmured, extinguishing the lamp (Cateridge had already closed the curtains). "Watson, can I do anything for you?"

"'Phone my locum," the Doctor mumbled into the pillow.

"I will. Anything else?"

"Go get s'me sleep. You're hovering."

Shamelessly eavesdropping, Lestrade peeked in to see a quietly laughing Holmes curling into the bedside chair with an afghan, and Watson opening one eye in a half-smile.

Both were asleep before he returned to the sitting-room in search of reading material (he would have to periodically check on the Doctor).

And when he discovered a stash of very well-thumbed _Strand_ _Magazine_s, he only grinned and wondered absently if anyone else had ever figured out that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was all bark and no bite.


End file.
